We Have Retcons
by Persephone Kore
Summary: Subreality Mainstream Cafe story. Stryfe and Cable aka Soldier X reminisce and commiserate about what their authors are doing to them.


_Disclaimer: Characters used and plots alluded to belong to Marvel. Subreality isn't mine either, and I've forgotten who's responsible for the Mainstream Cafe, but if I've done anything egregiously bizarre to it I apologize._

Summary: Stryfe and Cable (or Soldier X) commiserate over plots.

**We Have Retcons  
by Persephone_Kore**

The Mainstream Cafe is a strange place indeed. It exists, to whatever extent it may be said to exist, in Subreality and is therefore the product and inhabitant of the collective imagination of a bunch of fanfic writers. It does not, however, allow fanfic versions of characters.

Strictly speaking, this makes it impossible to write about except from the outside. The reader is requested not to think too hard about this as the author stands on tiptoe and peeks into the window to see what happens when Nathan _et cetera_ Summers and his clone Stryfe attempt to occupy the same table....

It would appear that the mainstream characters are still operating largely on the theory that they are actors. At least, there is no bloodshed or wreaking of telepathic or telekinetic havoc in progress.

There is however drinking and commiseration.

"If we're not killing each other at the moment, Nathan, do you happen to know why we seem to have taken over a story ostensibly about Gambit and Bishop?"

"We're pushy?"

"And wildly out of character."

"Pushy is in character. ...But why are you the one spouting hitherto unknown Phoenix-legends?"

"I'm more worried about crying over my own memories of hurting other people. If it didn't work a few years ago to drag me through the ones I didn't like in the first place...."

"Perhaps you were faking," Nathan suggested generously.

"While I find that interpretation at least somewhat more palatable, do you really want to propose it when you were supposed to be reading my mind?"

"Nate Grey bashed you in the head with that psi-siphon when you were supposed to be reading his."

"...Don't remind me."

"You've become a very embarrassing arch-enemy lately, you know."

"It's all part of my master plan."

Nathan looked skeptical.

Stryfe looked defensive. "I _have_ previously expressed a willingness to look like a complete idiot in the course of pursuing a goal."

"And demonstrated it. Still, I think when attributing the plot to you instead of your own actions makes you look more in-character, something's wrong."

Stryfe sighed morosely and took a long pull of his drink, then frowned at it. "What is this stuff?"

Nathan shrugged and took a long sip of his own darker glass. "Booze."

"What kind?"

"The bottle said Generic Energy Blast." 

Stryfe frowned. "It doesn't have enough of a kick for that." A pause. "On second thought, neither do the real Generic Energy Blasts."

"Try mixing it with coffee. That's what I did." Nathan drained the rest of his stein.

The clone gave him an irritated glare. "Do I look like Moira MacTaggart to you?"

Nathan choked and spat brown liquid that sizzled on the tablecloth and, after a moment, burst into flame. "Oath, no! I'm not that drunk."

Stryfe eyed the table. "That is not just this stuff and coffee."

"Well, no. I said that's what I did, not that I was still drinking it. This is Fanon Muir Coffee with a shot of the Phoenix Force."

Stryfe jumped at the word "Fanon" and hissed, "Shhhh! Do you want to get thrown out of here?"

A snort. "Would you care?"

"How many appearances do I get that have nothing to do with you?"

Nathan thought hard for a moment, then shrugged. "A few, if you leave out the fact that we're related. So?"

"So who else am I supposed to complain with if you get kicked out for reminding the management we know we're in," he lowered his voice, "fanfic?" An irritable sigh as he returned to a normal tone. "Honestly, Nathan, why do you think I never managed to kill you?"

"I'm just that good."

"Try again."

"I'm the one with fans."

"In the books. -- Flonq, close enough. Who else do I make any sense to?"

"Who said you made sense to me?"

"Shut up, 'Soldier X.' ...On second thought, get me a drink that sets itself on fire and I'll listen to you talk about your latest plot."

"Mine or the authors?"

"You know what I mean. Take your pick." Stryfe made his way to the bar, received a glassful of what looked rather like lava, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Let's see, I'm still dead, right?"

"Drink killing your memories?"

Stryfe tossed back half the glass on his way to the table and winced. "Who needs alcohol for that, Nathan? We have retcons."

*****


End file.
